Apocalypse - Keith R. A. DeCandido [21]
The fuckers had reopened the Hive and let the infected workers loose.
Assholes.
Still, Alice saw no people—living or dead.
Or undead.
She knew, however, that that wouldn’t last.
Two of the dozens of abandoned, shattered vehicles near her were RCPD patrol cars. She checked in one, then the other—the second gave her what she wanted.
A shotgun.
She checked to see that it was fully loaded.
It was.
Alice pumped the shotgun.
Ten
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” Jill Valentine muttered to herself as she abandoned her car.
Her quoting Dickens to herself was prompted by the tale of two cities she had witnessed on her drive from the station house to the Ravens’ Gate Bridge—or, rather, the approach to the bridge.
Parts of Raccoon City were still full of people, many of them trying to leave, or fending off zombie attacks.
Parts of Raccoon City were a total ghost town of abandoned cars, abandoned buildings, and significant collateral damage to both. She had barely been able to navigate the Porsche through some of it. For the first time, she wished she had gotten herself an SUV. But only idiots drove off-road vehicles in the city.
Of course, the world, as she well knew, was overstocked with idiots.
The main approach to the bridge was a tangle of abandoned cars. There was no way Jill was going to get through.
Luckily, she had no reason not to abandon the car. Nice as the Porsche was, it was just a thing. The same uncle who’d left her the brownstone and the Porsche had also left her enough in her bank account that she could buy new things.
The only items that mattered to her were the twin automatics in her shoulder and thigh holsters, the pack of cigarettes in her pocket that she’d retrieved from the Porsche’s glove compartment, and the cards in her wallet that provided access to her money. Everything else—her clothes, her awards, her pool table, her CDs, and, yes, her badge—was eminently replaceable.
While the Raccoon side of the bridge was clogged with abandoned vehicles—including, to Jill’s bitter amusement, dozens of SUVs—the Ravens’ Gate side was equally clogged with people, all of whom were trying to get out of the city.
The answer to Jill’s immediate query as to what was slowing them down so much was answered when she got a good look at the terminus of the Ravens’ Gate side. A large wall had been constructed on the other side, covered in razor wire and staffed by people in Hazmat suits and people carrying very large guns. The only way through the wall, which looked to be made of concrete, was through a narrow gate at the bridge road.
To Jill’s great annoyance, the wall, the people in the Hazmat suits, and the people with the guns all were emblazoned with the Umbrella Corporation logo.
Naturally.
No, wait, not all of them. As she pushed her way forward, she saw a few RCPD uniforms helping out. But it was obvious that their work was solely supportive.
Umbrella was running the show.
Why even bother having a police force? Or a government? Let the Corporation run everything for us!
If Jill’s experiences following Arklay hadn’t numbed her, she would have felt the urge to throw up at this crass abuse of power.
But for now, she just wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. In retrospect, she should have left Raccoon as soon as they suspended her. After all, a cop couldn’t survive if she couldn’t rely on her fellow cops.
Henderson and the rest of the RCPD brass hadn’t backed her up—they’d fed her to the wolves dressed in the snappy suits favored by the Umbrella Corporation.
She owed them nothing. So she was leaving.
All she had to do was plow through the crowd.
A medical station had been set up where a doctor was checking people over as they approached the gate, guarded by Umbrella’s thugs—
—and one man dressed in a S.T.A.R.S. uniform.
“Peyton!” she screamed, but she couldn’t be heard over the din of the people impatiently waiting for their turns to be examined so they could leave.
As she pushed her way through the crowd toward the gate, she noticed the doctor performing the